


home for the holidays

by lotts (LottieAnna), Stromesquad



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Fluff, Folgers Coffee Themes, Light Angst, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 21:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16584842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LottieAnna/pseuds/lotts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stromesquad/pseuds/Stromesquad
Summary: Dylan wakes up before the sun on Christmas morning.





	home for the holidays

**Author's Note:**

> IF YOU FOUND THIS THROUGH GOOGLING, KNOW ANYONE MENTIONED IN THIS STORY PERSONALLY, OR ARE MENTIONED YOURSELF: please, please click away. This is a work of fiction and nothing written in this story is true. Any accurate information used in this story is publicly available information about public figures, the rest is made up, 100%. Please keep this work confined to fan spaces and away from the eyes of the people mentioned herein!
> 
> exactly what it says on the tin, dylan/ryan fic based on that folgers coffee commercial. please don't share any part of this with non-fandom people!!! if sibling incest squicks you out please close this story and pretend you never saw it.
> 
> co-written by l and a, thanks to k for the lovely and speedy beta!!!

Dylan wakes up before the sun on Christmas morning, running on only a few hours of sleep, having arrived late last night and stayed up longer than he should have. Christmas Eve in Mississauga is a multi-family affair, with all sorts of Lorne Park regulars hopping between houses, fueled by gentle snowflakes and warm cinnamon cider.  

It had been fun, because it always is; as complicated as things can be for Dylan when it comes to his family, there’s a reason he came back to Toronto in the middle of a West Coast road trip. As far as he’s concerned, if he’s not playing in World Juniors, he should be watching it on his basement couch, surrounded by an assortment of Stromes and McLeods decked out in red. It makes him feel like he’s a part of something bigger, which is really what he loves about the holiday season. A break in the season that invariably leaves him feeling refreshed, grounded, a little more like himself 

Which doesn’t mean it’s perfect— being home is fucking strange for Dylan, because this isn’t quite his home anymore. He doesn’t fit here, not for longer than a few days, and Christmas is always a painful reminder of that, and it’s fine—he’s grown up, and he’s making a home for himself somewhere else—but it kind of mutes the brightly-colored nostalgia of the holiday, ages it a little bit. 

And then there’s the fact that Ryan hadn’t been there, which— 

On the one hand, the combination of  _ Ryan _ and  _ home _ brings all sorts of emotional baggage that Dylan’s not always equipped to deal with. 

On the other hand, Ryan  _ is _ home. Dylan’s heart decided that was true years ago, and no amount of distance—or lack thereof, for that matter—has been able to undo that.  

It feels big, the Ryan-shaped hole in the holiday, even though they’ve never really been together this time of year. Dylan figures that it might just be a Ryan-shaped hole in his life generally, and being home has just sanded down the edges, made them sharper, more distinct. Maybe this house will always just feel a little off when Ryan’s not there to fill it.

It's been a long time since they've seen each other for Christmas. 

Dylan looks at the clock and sighs. It's a little before five, but he knows he won't be able to get back to sleep. 

Coffee. That sounds like a good idea. And maybe popping those cinnamon rolls in the oven to bake; Dylan always loves waking up to the smell of something warm down in the kitchen, so he figures he might as well, as long as he’s up.  

He pads downstairs as quietly as he can, skipping the step that squeaks on his way. He turns the thermostat up a couple degrees as he passes, hears the hum of the heat kicking back on.

It's quiet in the house, and Dylan feels the ghosts of his younger self beneath his feet, a life uncomplicated and easy, when they could all be together. He was always the one to wake everyone else up in the morning, saving Ryan for last, pouncing on him while he was still sleeping. He'd get a facewash for his troubles, but it always came with a smile— his favorite smile, maybe just his favorite anything, full-stop. His chest does something like ache when he thinks about spending another Christmas only seeing that smile via webcam, over the shitty WiFi of whatever hotel Ryan’s staying at.

But it’s Christmas. He doesn’t have time to be sad. All he can really do is focus on filling this cold morning with all the best parts of waking up, warm pastries and fresh, hot coffee.

Dylan hears tires crunching on a fresh snow, a car door closing. He looks at the clock— 5:15. Dylan pauses and looks up. He feels bad for whoever it must be getting out of that car. Red eyes suck no matter how much you get used to late nights. 

He goes back stirring his coffee. 

The front door opens, and Dylan startles. No one should be here yet. His grandparents aren't supposed to get here until 2:30; no one else even gets up until 10:00, which means—  

There's only one possible person this could be, and Dylan sets his mug down so quickly that coffee splashes out onto the counter. He'll deal with it later, because this— this is so much more important. 

He runs into the living room, and— Ryan. Ryan's here _.  _ Ryan is  _ here,  _ and he is smiling Dylan's favorite smile, and it's everything Dylan has ever needed. 

He doesn’t even think, just throws himself into Ryan's arms, grabbing tight as he tucks his face into Ryan's neck.

“You're here,” he whispers into Ryan's scarf. “You…”

Ryan lets out a soft laugh. “Made it work,” he says. “Couldn't stand to spend another Christmas without you.” He presses a kiss to Dylan's hair. 

Dylan pulls back, bringing one hand up to cup Ryan's cheek. He presses their foreheads together.

“I’ve missed you,” he breathes. “God, I've missed you so much.” 

He leans and kisses Ryan, slow, gentle and sweet. His heart beats hard in his chest. He never wants to stop, never wants to let go. He  _ loves _ Ryan, more than he can ever imagine loving anything or anyone and now they're kissing for the first time in months, the first time in the house they grew up in, the house where Dylan fell in love with Ryan and it feels— it feels like a miracle, a revelation of all the things he never thought he'd have but somehow gets to keep. 

They kiss for a recklessly long time, and it’s not anything close to enough— any time spent kissing Ryan is too short. He'd kiss Ryan for every moment of the rest of his life if he could. There’s nothing that quite feels like it, feels like love in a way that’s this complete, even if it’s wrong— maybe even because it’s wrong, if he’s being honest. But— god, Dylan’s missed him like crazy, and if all they have is one day, he might as well act like every second of time without someone looking belongs to them, and only to them. 

When they break apart, they stay pressed together for a moment longer, just breathing each other in and basking in the moment, and it might be a little fucked up, but damn if Dylan's heart doesn’t feel whole in a way it hasn’t since the last time they were together. 

He takes Ryan's hand. “Let's go get you a cup of coffee.” 

“How long have you been up?” Ryan says, a little teasing. His smile softens into something a little easier, but it’s still sends a thrill through Dylan. 

“Not that long,” Dylan says. “I— fuck, Rye, I just— I can’t believe you’re here.” 

“I told you I’d try to be home for the holidays.” 

“You didn’t exactly sound optimistic about your chances of making it.” 

Ryan shrugs. “I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up too much. Y’know, in case things didn’t work out.” 

“You could’ve texted Mom and Dad,” Dylan says. “Told them you were on a plane, at least— fuck, they’re gonna be so  _ happy, _ Rye.” 

“I figured the surprise would be nice,” Ryan says. 

“That’s so dramatic,” Dylan says, but it’s just banter, to giddy to be a real accusation. “I’m the middle child, you know. Drama’s supposed to be my thing.” 

“So I knew you’d appreciate it,” Ryan says, and Dylan’s stomach does something complicated when he realizes that this isn’t just Ryan coming home to surprise it’s family. It’s— it’s a romantic gesture. For  _ Dylan.  _

And this is— it’s how Dylan knows that Ryan’s it for him. There is no one on earth who could make him feel this— this special. This worthy. This  _ loved.  _ All Dylan has to do is think about Ryan, and he understands just how right wrong can feel, because nothing will ever be as right as this kind of all-encompassing, tangled thing. 

His thoughts are cut off by the sound of rustling upstairs, and both of them freeze. Dylan idly wonders if his hands being on Ryan’s hips is somehow suspicious, but he’s pretty sure breaking apart fast is about a billion times worse. 

The thing about almost getting caught— it’s never just the worry that someone will see them and think,  _ those Strome boys are awfully close.  _ The real issue is switching back into brother-mode, not letting any hugs linger too long or hands wander a little too low. Dylan’s pretty sure that his face probably says everything, but maybe that’s the upside of falling in love with his older brother— it’s normal for him to look at him like he’s hung the moon. 

The only thing that’s really different is the reason why, and that’s— 

That’s not a problem for now, because the rustling upstairs has stopped, and there’s no one coming down the stairs. 

“So,” Ryan says, taking a step away from Dylan, which is, objectively, what he should do, but Dylan hates it anyway, hates every second without his hands on Ryan. “Coffee?” 

“Right,” Dylan says, a little dazed. “Let’s— kitchen.” 

Ryan does a  _ lead the way  _ gesture, looking a little pained, and Dylan’s pretty sure they’re both thinking the same thing. 

The kitchen is out of sight of the stairs, so they both breathe a little easier once they’re there. Ryan’s still got his hat on, jacket barely unzipped, and Dylan absently watches him strip off his outerwear piece by piece as he gets mugs out of the cabinet. He’s pretty sure there’s no chance anyone’s waking up soon—whatever they’d heard earlier had just been the rumblings of an old house, because houses that aren’t in Arizona need heat—but he tries to be quiet anyway, suddenly desperately afraid of this alone time with Ryan getting cut short. 

Ryan’s nose is red from the cold, and Dylan doesn’t really have any choice but to pause the process of getting them coffee to walk over and kiss it, before unzipping his hoodie and pushing it off his shoulders. 

“Did you wear this on purpose?” Dylan says, eyeing the faded Erie Otters logo. “Where did you even find this?” 

“I stole it ages ago,” Ryan says. “Uh, before—” He gestures between them. “So, y’know. I’ve had it for a while.” 

“I don’t even remember this one,” Dylan says. If he’s being honest, about half his wardrobe is Erie branded. He kind of wishes Ryan had one that Dylan cared more about, one he could attach a piece of his heart to so he’d know it was in Ryan’s hands. 

“It’s got your number on it,” Ryan says, just as Dylan’s hands brush over the paint, and that— 

_ Oh.  _

That is special, in a way that makes Dylan feel a little bit like he’s on fire as Ryan shrugs the hoodie back on and stuffs his hands in the pockets. 

“And our name,” Dylan says, his mouth a little dry. Without really thinking, he says, “Turn around.” 

Ryan does, and Dylan sees just— so many different things that feel like home, disparate parts of him that shouldn’t go together, but he can’t help but bask in the glow of seeing all of them at once. 

“God,” Dylan says, stepping forward to trace his thumbs over the name. “I wish I knew you had this.” He runs his hands down Ryan’s sides, and Ryan leans back. Dylan wishes he weren’t wearing a shirt— for a lot of reasons, but mostly so he could feel it, his name and his number on his brother’s back, the rush of  _ mine mine mine  _ he feels at the sight of it. 

“Consider this a present,” Ryan says, guiding Dylan’s hands underneath the hem of his shirt, just barely touching his torso, and— 

They can’t  _ do _ anything, not right here in this kitchen, with their entire family asleep right upstairs. They can’t do this because they could get caught, and because Dylan’s not sure he could look his other brother and parents and grandparents in the eye knowing that they did  _ that  _ in their house, while everyone was home. 

No matter how badly Dylan wants to.

“You're my present,” Dylan says, which is a good enough compromise, and he kisses the back of Ryan’s neck once before he goes to pour them coffee. The smell of sweet cinnamon is strong in his nose, and the warmth of the oven, slowly but surely, is heating up the cold tile of the kitchen floor. 


End file.
